


Memento

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the future, about five years after the battle at Badon Hill, the remaining Knights assemble for another funeral. Gawain is left to the chaos, to the planning and left to the mercy of his memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento

_all the people that you’ve loved  
they’re all bound to leave some keepsakes_  
\- interpol, leif erikson

Gawain _hated_ funerals. If ever there was a thing he truly despised more, he had yet to discover it. Arthur’s funeral was turning out to be a disaster, another in a long line of hated memorials.

Gawain stopped, rubbed his eyes and cursed the Romans who had chosen to come back for the occasion. You would think that after so many years parted from the commander of the Sarmatian knights (not even the _Romans_ ), they would have forgotten about him. It seemed not to be the case. He was the lone Knight in the land of the Britons at the moment. Word had been sent after Bors a week before (whose children were now grown enough to move East, back home to Sarmatia) and he was expected to arrive at any point in time.

And Gawain had been left alone in the halls of his old home, his old outpost, sitting alone at the round table to plan a funeral. He rested his sword upon the table, the flame still flickering brightly in the middle. He cursed that he was the only one to deal with this. Bors had his family now and Guinevere was inconsolable, trapped in the confines of her room. She refused to come out and she doggedly refused to hold civil conversation with anyone who dared speak to her.

In the grand tradition of his forefathers, Arthur had died in battle against a great number of Saxons staging an offense to claim more land as they moved south in a quest to capture Rome. With great honour he had fallen, Guinevere still fighting even as Arthur took his last breaths. Gawain had also been present when the Saxons began to amass just outside the walls. He had been passing through, stopping to visit while on his way East to see others in his constant wanderings. Arthur had not said a word when the drums of battle had begun to sound. He had merely looked Gawain’s way and the decision was made.

Gawain had seen Arthur fall and in that last moment a peaceful expression had flickered over his face.

But what was the problem at the moment – ah yes, the damned Romans.

Gawain had thought he had the funeral all planned out. The Britons were fond of their King, fiercely loyal, and loved him to a degree that Gawain envied slightly. The funeral was to be a Sarmatian funeral, in accordance with Arthur’s request to be buried as his Knights had been, but now with the Romans arriving, they expected their own traditions to be carried out.

Gawain spit on the floor behind him, sick with frustration and tired to his very core. Parts of him ached that hadn’t hurt in years. The wounds he had earned on Badon Hill were coming back with a fierce vengeance, taunting him with the ghosts of dull pain, easing in and out of his consciousness. Every single wound inflicted accidentally or on purpose from a fellow knight was burning on him, even now as he propped his feet up on another chair, laying his axe across his sword.

His body was painted with the tangible memories of a whole other life, a life that never seemed to end. They were mementos he was more than willing to abandon forever, welcoming the wash of amnesia to cleanse him of all the scars, all the wounds, and all the memories. Bad memory indeed, he harrumphed to himself, recalling words from years ago, riding back to supposed freedom.

But there was always the association.

He was hesitant to want the wounds to disappear, for with them he feared that he would lose the memories (both fond and frustrating) of his fellow fallen Knights. He had so many: the mark on his shoulder that Dagonet had left, and the long scar across his chest that Tristan had ‘accidentally’ given him. He swore it had been an accident, but the nearly maniacal grin on Tristan’s face as he beamed with pleasure and triumph had quickly confirmed Gawain’s suspicions that Tristan had still been angry with him for taking his rations and ale the day before. Gawain touched on the place where Lancelot had bruised him once, the hilt of his sword knocking into Gawain’s ribs as they jostled to get to the table first.

They were gone, but their memories would remain. Some of their memories remained painted on Gawain’s body, even to that day. He hated being disfigured with the scars, but knew he would always carry the people he had…yes, _loved_ , with him so long as he kept them.

And what was…yes, of course, the funeral.

The Britons would then hold the funeral, burying his body in Sarmatian tradition with the sword in the ground, a fire held at the head. Bors would make his way back with his children (fourteen now; how the man retained his sanity, Gawain would never know) and would stand with Gawain as Guinevere plunged the sword into the Earth. Jols had returned some days after Arthur’s death, deeply grieved, and had begun to help with the preparations, but the digging of the grave would fall to Gawain. The Romans could hold their traditions for all he cared, but they could do it off to the side where it didn’t interfere. A wake was tradition, of course, tales of the man who had become a legend. Gawain tapped on the table, knowing it would happen there, where the legends came to life and the legend himself ate his meals (most of the time, with extremely bad conversational skills).

Gawain kept breathing, trying not to accept that with Arthur gone, their ranks were completely scattered now, leaderless. It seemed as though the times of the Knights was truly over now.

And of course, in their parting for freedom, Gawain had lost the one he thought he might never lose. There had been scant reports from scouts Galahad's whereabouts for three years. Then, the night that Gawain would never forget, despite how valiantly he fought to lose the memory. The night the report came back of a body in Sarmatian armour with arrows stuck in his back, that night was the one time Gawain vowed to forget everything. He hadn’t thought of Galahad since he had mourned him. It served him well and kept him far from a kind of grief that threatened to consume him.

The doors were pushed open with great speed, saving Gawain from further reminiscing.

“Sir, there’s…” the young stable boy was out of breath. Gawain raised an eyebrow calmly. “There’s someone just inside the gates, he said he was a Knight and that you were to be sent for.”

It seemed Bors had arrived, then. Gawain stood, picked up his weapons and marched outside, closing the doors to the round table behind him, the fire never dying. There were some things that Gawain could preserve until he too fell dead, and the fire would be one of them. The memory of the fallen Knights would last forever there. He made his way through the garrison, his stride confident as he searched for Bors and the inevitable cluster of children that always accompanied him. The boy that had fetched him trailed at his side, seemingly fixated on Gawain’s sword.

When they reached the gates, there were no children to be found.

Gawain frowned, searching for Bors. The stable boy had run off, tugging on some man’s hand, turning around and pointing in Gawain’s direction. Gawain rested his hand on his sword, ready to attack against this impersonator, but the moment the man turned around, Gawain felt shock command him. He froze in place, his eyes wide, his body stuck, and his brain quiet.

“Well, look at you.” He was greeted with affection. “In charge, are you?”

Gawain blinked, watching as this…as…but it couldn’t…“Galahad?” Gawain whispered, as the incredibly lifelike apparition approached, surrounded him in a very warm hug, and held him in strong arms. Gawain gave a loud laugh, relief flooding him. He clung tightly as he realized that Galahad was _alive_. All of those emotions and memories he had forced into oblivion came crashing into him and he felt his knees weaken slightly.

“What’s the matter?” Galahad taunted, one hand bracing Gawain to support him. “Weak with your old age?”

Gawain pushed him off and took a step back to study him. He looked…well, he looked exactly the same as he had, but the years had settled on his face, giving him a more traveled, wearier look. He no longer bore the look of a child pretending to be an adult. Now, he truly looked like a man.

“I thought you were dead,” Gawain quietly responded. “Over the years, I had scouts following you, and one came back saying that you had been killed. I thought…you’ve been dead in my mind for three years.” He paused, exhaling and recovering from the flood of every emotion he had forgotten how to feel. “Three years,” he repeated, laughing soberly.

“That’s quite a bit of time for you to be so ignorant,” Galahad remarked, crossing his arms and walking around. “This place hasn’t changed one bit though.”

“You’re not dead.” Gawain was still marveling, his eyes captivated by Galahad’s every step (much more vital than the dead could ever be). “But someone said you were dead…”

Galahad turned back and gave him a shrug.

“Galahad, where have you been?” Gawain snarled now. “You just leave for years and don’t send any word that you were all right?”

“You didn’t say anything to me,” Galahad replied evenly. “You sent _scouts_. You had me trailed. You found the body of someone whose armour looked like mine,” he snorted. “I gave that away. I didn’t want memories of my old life. I didn’t want those nightmares haunting my every step. Not once did you search me out yourself. Not once.”

“Yes, well…” Gawain began to explain.

“It serves you right to think I was dead.” Galahad cut him off, rolling his eyes and making his way around the courtyard. “It really hasn’t changed. Now, where’s Bors?”

“He hasn’t arrived yet. Since you’re here, you can help me with the funeral,” Gawain grumbled, storming back towards the dining hall, in an instant recalling just how aggravating Galahad could be.

“You’ve fared well enough for three years without me,” Galahad replied flippantly. “Why start needing me again now?” And with that, he walked away. Gawain stood, frozen, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “He found his spine.”

***

Not long after the funeral – perhaps three nights, no more than five – Gawain was woken from his sleep to find Galahad crawling between the sheets and Gawain, tangling them up in a mass of warm limbs and material. Gawain slowly shifted, groaning and bringing himself to wake up. His muscles ached with the task of digging the grave and bearing the body into it, without the help of the same Romans who felt the need to cause such chaos by arriving. He felt weary, and every scar seemed to scream back to life in nightmares now.

“Don’t,” Gawain protested wearily. “It aches.”

“Shh,” Galahad commanded him, prying Gawain’s shirt off him and running his hands slowly over Gawain’s chest as though it were a precious treasure to be studied, or perhaps a map that Galahad’s fingers were lightly traversing. Galahad bowed his head forward, fitting it in the crook of Gawain’s neck. “Our ranks are split,” Galahad whispered. “The Knights are no more.”

“There are more than enough. It simply isn’t us any longer. Bors has enough children to form his own round table,” Gawain contradicted him. He looked down to find Galahad in the midst of an intense study of Gawain’s skin. “What are you doing?” he asked with bemusement.

“Finding things,” Galahad responded, his voice a barely-there hum. His fingers lightly tapped upon a tiny mark above Gawain’s heart. “This one. This.”

“What?”

“It’s mine,” Galahad looked up with a proud little smile. “Remember?”

“I tried to forget,” Gawain rolled his eyes and pried Galahad’s hand off him. It didn’t help matters any. Galahad just put his hand back on the scar and traced it with his index finger, sending shivers down Gawain’s back. “You didn’t have to be so forceful with the knife. It wasn’t as though I’d threatened your life.”

“You said you wouldn’t have me for a week,” Galahad responded petulantly, all shades of maturity that he might have earned dissipating with his words, the past come rushing back to reclaim him. “And I was only playing. If you hadn’t moved, you would have escaped unharmed.”

“I did move,” Gawain reminded him, smirking and pulling down Galahad’s breeches slightly, tapping the small mark on his hip. “Don’t you recall how you earned your very first nick?” he teased, his fingers rubbing the groove in Galahad’s skin. Galahad reflexively moved away, biting down on a grin. He gave a quiet laugh as Gawain shook his head. “And to think, I didn’t last a week. You were in my bed within two days.”

“Come here,” Galahad beckoned, drawing Gawain closer into his arms. “You thought me dead for three years, did you? Stupid of you, really, to cling to something like that.”

“I forgot everything I could,” Gawain quietly confided in the moonlight, sending secrets passing through the air. “Every time I thought of you, I tried to kill the memory as quickly as I could. It wasn’t fair of you to leave me behind,” Gawain accused.

“I needed to grow up,” Galahad said quietly. “And I did. I’m just glad I made it back in time to say goodbye to Arthur. There will never be another like him, that much I know.” He nestled in closer to Gawain, studying him still with a scrutiny that Gawain hadn’t suffered since Tristan. His lips pressed against Gawain’s neck, and from there, he mumbled words that might have been hazy, but Gawain heard each of them perfectly. “You’ve got marks all over you.”

“Not marks,” Gawain shook his head, pulling Galahad close and holding on tight, warmth and recollections flooding him and making him feel wanted and safe. “Memories.”

THE END


End file.
